


from your hip (to your chest)

by MagpieCrown



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Arena Worldbuilding, Canon-Typical Violence, Mental Health Issues, Other, Past Sexual Assault, Psychological Trauma, character death but it's respawnable so the stakes are low, miragehound is more implied than anything bc bloodhound is self-isolating but like in a bad way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:47:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28859811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieCrown/pseuds/MagpieCrown
Summary: But Bloodhound waits, and watches, and does nothing, their muscles tense and coiled and fusing slowly together.--(The arena is busy, but Bloodhound is too distracted having to play a much more dangerous kind of game.)
Relationships: Bloodhound/Mirage | Elliott Witt
Kudos: 19





	from your hip (to your chest)

_and I watch_

_as your head_

_turns full circle_

Bloodhound needs to move.

This is a bad spot to get stuck in - the Ring will close in less than an hour, and the jagged crack of the valley is too barren and unforgiving to run through straight on.

There was movement on the opposite slope a few minutes ago, and Bloodhound had to curl up behind an outcropping that was just big enough to more or less conceal their frame. They do not peek out to check if the enemy is still there, but they will have to soon, they will have to move, this is _bad,_ but also - but also there are care packages incoming, and the pattern of the drops hints very heavily that this valley will house the next set. Bloodhound trusts precious little, but they still trust their maps.

And they also desperately need new weapons. They were lucky to snag a Longbow a few hours ago, but had to leave it behind when someone almost succeeded in jumping them. Their reaction was pure, blinding panic, and there is no way to retrieve the gun now - Bloodhound only vaguely remembers where it was left, and that area has long since been swallowed by the Ring anyway.

It is hard to stay focused, hard to pierce through the fog in their head. The cage of the arena grows smaller and smaller, cutting into their lungs, and there is no escaping it, not until the end, but they will be back next week, and the week after, and the week after, released into the stiff embrace of it like game into the hunting grounds over and over and over until someone catches up to them and it happens again, just as Bloodhound has been promised.

One day, it will happen again.

It might happen today.

Not death. Oh, death is very likely to happen - Bloodhound has not won since the game before _that_ one, they remember it well - but there are things that feel worse than death.

Bloodhound grits their teeth, pushes the thought forcefully away, shivers at the way the fear in it clings to their skin. 

They can fight today. They can try.

It is not bad this time. It has certainly been worse before - which, on the other hand, had the benefit of getting removed from the match early on, either by getting picked off by someone they had not noticed or straight up not bothering to move once the Ring closes. Not having to play this twisted, secret game on top of the championship, not having to watch, and wait, and wonder when and where and who and... 

The care packages thunder down from the heavens. Gifts from the Gods, of course - but Bloodhound is anything but deserving of them, these days. 

They scan the valley carefully, eyes mapping out the potential entrances and escape routes and ambush points all over again. They stay put - people will come soon, drawn by the promise of spoils. Their turn will come after.

The plan is simple: get a sniper rifle - any will do at this point - and something for closer range if the enemy manages to flank, maybe a grenade or two if they are lucky. Then find a secure perch, somewhere high up and with a clear view of the surrounding area, so that another sniper would be able to get them. Keep everyone away for as long as possible. Try to win. Fail, probably.

But Bloodhound cannot _not_ try. Anything, anything at all to block out the insidious, corner-of-the-eye, back-of-the-neck feeling of arriving at one’s own execution.

This is their third big monthly game since the - since. If they give in - if they give up on it - nothing will remain to break the fall.

Their grip is slipping.

A fight breaks out in the narrow valley below them. There is no instinct to use the sonar anymore, the twitch suppressed and choked into nothingness. Giving away their own position is not worth knowing the enemy’s.

But it seems to be at least four full squads stuck in a place too small for a dozen people, snarling at each other over the care packages, looting as they go. The walls of the valley chafe away at them, send them scrambling for cover, for feints, for counter-attacks. 

The ever-present hum in Bloodhound’s ears rises in pitch and falls and turns into a roar, stoked by the ineffable rhythm of weapons biting into flesh, the shouts of the wounded and the dying. The Hunt in them retreats, and the Slaughter calls instead, inevitable and imperious, and its ancient voice pulls on something that is woven into Bloodhound as surely as their scars on their face, the knots in their lungs. 

But Bloodhound waits, and watches, and does nothing, their muscles tense and coiled and fusing slowly together.

Two squads lock in combat so furiously that by the time the third one sneaks up on them - Bloodhound recognizes Renee among them, the grey-black streaks of her portals like sizzling wounds in the fabric of reality - it is entirely too late. The fourth squad jumps in soon after, carried by their flier - they pass by too closely, and Bloodhound presses themself into the outcropping, stills their breath, watches with eyes half-lidded.

People switch out LMGs for shotguns, a Thermite grenade sets the dry grass on fire, and soon enough, the squads wipe each other out. A brief silence stretches, grass blades shifting in the wind as the fire releases them into smoke, and Bloodhound mouths the silent prayer for the fallen along with them.

But no - there is a survivor. A portal opens with a crackle, and Renee stumbles out of it, already discarding a used syringe. She looks around, crouches down by someone with another syringe at the ready - a fitted jumpsuit, a puffy jacket - Nathalie - and turns to loot what remains of the care packages while she recovers. 

Soon enough, Nathalie raises a shaky hand, and Renee yanks her up, and the two of them trip into another portal and out of view. 

An inaudible timer goes off, and the arena bots crawl out of the services tunnels under the ground. They scuttle among the corpses, picking up their metadata chips and despawning what they have collected. They work fast and soon disappear underground again.

The valley is empty and still once more. The avalanche in Bloodhound’s ears slowly fades back into a low thrum. The Slaughter releases them, the Hunt settles back in, the useless, aimless, suffocating weight of it.

A few teams pass by the packages - a duo, a trio, another duo - but they are spaced out enough not to run into each other. Bloodhound waits and waits and waits, long after they catch sight of someone on the last squad scoping in at the packages from the mouth of the valley and turning to shake their head at their teammates. Bloodhound breaths in slow and shallow puffs through their respirator, braced against the aching pressure.

But this part is easy. To hunt means to stay hidden and vigilant and still, and what had long since become second nature to Bloodhound has now been making its bleeding, desperate way into becoming _first._

Watching is easy, even now, when that vigilance sharpens into a point that sits uneasily behind Bloodhound’s bloodshot eyes, scratches in their chest, against their ribs. Even like this, with the world unbalanced so violently that Bloodhound almost finds themself sympathizing with their prey - but the prey, at least, has the blessing of not knowing what is coming until it hits.

...Like _they_ did not know the first time. They almost wish to go back to not knowing. To the blissful ignorance and the simplicity and the - the _lack_ of this horrible, fractured feeling peeling their ribs apart. But an invisible, creeping shadow blankets every boulder big enough to hide behind and every darkened doorway and every empty space between the trees, and there is no forgetting that, there is no forgetting anything, there is no pressing the ribs back together, there is nothing.

So - yes. This is easy. Though perhaps ‘simple’ is the correct word. 

...It is not - it is not easy.

Getting the gear is even harder, the pointless, arduous task of looking for it only to lose it all again because of one well-placed bullet. Looting open areas and close quarters alike buries an antsy itch under Bloodhound’s skin, one that does not leave even when they find a secure spot - it never leaves now, not even outside the arena, but without a wall behind their back it becomes all they can think about, all they can feel, and there are eyes on them, and eyes eventually mean hands, and hands eventually mean…

A shiver passes through Bloodhound, and they catch and turn it into a full-body shake, and then they jump off their perch and skid down towards the opened care packages.

Looking for gear feels like dying. But facing an enemy empty-handed still manages to feel worse.

The care packages have been picked clean by now, of course. Bloodhound never expects to find anything in them, but people discard their inferior weapons and extra ammo, leaving piles of it lying around. Worthless to them. And it stays on the ground longer than what the utility bots quickly despawn together with the bodies.

Bloodhound scavenges the graveyard as fast as they can, rifles through a few open boxes, grabs what they can find. It is not much - a barebones Sentinel and a pistol, a handful of bullets for each. A bad loadout this late in the game. Someone else’s discards, and the sniper rifle seems to have seen more than its share of action today - the glass in the scope is cracked, and the butt is dented and covered in something suspiciously visceral - but Bloodhound does not get to be picky. 

They shoulder the rifle, tuck the pistol away, and run back up the slope so they can traverse it to the exit from the valley - the Ring is closing soon, and to get caught in its grip at this point in time spells a very painful death.

Which has its benefits, of course. But. Yeah.

Anyway.

The weapons are not ideal, but they will have to do. Top-tier gear would be gracelessly wasted on them, in any case. Their hands shake too much to land reliable shots even with a kitted sniper, and getting near enough for close combat is...no, that is not an option.

Because it could be anyone.

Anyone at all. The danger is coming, the threat hanging low and leaden and slimy-smooth, and it can come from any direction, at any moment, and what little they know - what precious, nauseating little they can glean from their memories - is no help whatsoever.

There were three of them, masked, faceless, distorted through the heavy haze of the drug. One was big and burly, one thin, one swathed so thoroughly in his disguising clothes, over or instead of his gear, whatever it was, that Bloodhound would not even know his shape. All three were men - _definitely_ \- so that should make everyone else in the arena safe, at least. Or not? What if they know? What if there are more than just the three? What if there are accomplices?

It could be anyone. It could be anyone.

It could be their teammates - which is why every round Bloodhound tears away from the squad the moment they leave the dropship, their stomach swooping as they disconnect from the squad’s grid and take control over the steering, but even that has somehow become the lesser evil. 

Everything is known in comparison.

There was a leer this time from one of the teammates, the one they have seen often enough but not spoken to, with the burrowing gear, tall and wiry and - could he have been the second one? Or the third? Why did he leer? Does he know something? Does he _know?_

The valley yawns, releasing them into a wide, open area - this is good, this looks promising - but Bloodhound barely registers it, fumbles instead to bring up the map in a jerky, urgent movement. Their teammates are fighting on the other side of the shrinking arena, still together. They did not try to follow them at the start of the games - good. Sometimes people give chase.

So that is at least two people Bloodhound does not have to worry about for the time being. Which only leaves several dozen - much less now that the battle is slowly drawing to a close and the speakers are not in such a great hurry to update the kill count anymore.

And - Bloodhound has friends now. They would not seek to harm them outside of the competition. They are safe - to an extent, the way every person is safe only up until their invisible, hairline-thin breaking point - but safe nevertheless.

...Although friends and family _have_ turned on Bloodhound before.

There is no reason to expect it would happen again - no _real_ reason, anyway, but...but.

Bloodhound’s thoughts here stray dangerously, inevitably, to Elliott. Elliott would not betray them, they would have no reason to fear, no need to run, no...

No. 

Bloodhound swallows the awful, unbidden knot. Cannot think about Elliott.

It was the right decision. They could have come after him too, hurt him - after anyone close to Bloodhound, really, but with that circle small and removed enough as it is - Elliott would have been the obvious choice, the obvious target, punished simply for the crime of being being their - someone.

It was the right decision - to let Elliott go. Bloodhound wills away the painful twist of their mouth.

It is fine. They are fine. They have always been fine alone - and will be again.

It matters not that it does not feel like it. It never does, at first.

Bloodhound finds a good perch - an old watch post clinging to a cliff high above the plain, creaking and half-rotten, a leftover from whatever past life this place had before it got turned into an arena. Bloodhound chances a sonar - empty - and clambers to the top room, and sets up the Sentinel against the splintered window frame. Drums their fingers against the wood, frowns at the way it disintegrates into dust, coating their gloves.

With their rotten luck, they might as well end up dying because the whole thing crumbled under their weight. Tumble right down the cliffs, into whoever might still be at their foot - maybe it will not even kill them, maybe…

There is movement on the ground.

The scope is terrible and nearly useless, but Bloodhound squints through it anyway until the vague shape resolves itself into a familiar silhouette, oblong forms rising around it like poisonous mushrooms as the person is obviously setting up a defense perimeter.

Caustic.

A shudder grips the space between Bloodhound’s shoulder blades before they can catch it. They lean back and away from the scope, wince, lean back in. They cannot afford to avoid looking danger in the eye, not ever but especially not these days.

Caustic fits - his size, his height, his...overall attitude - could it have been him? They _did_ use something to cover up all their tracks, to further confuse Bloodhound’s terrified, unraveling mind, and, _Gods,_ the stench, the horrible, sour meatiness of it…

Could it have been him? Who else? His friends? The sullen one - Mefisto, the one always loitering around him, always sneering at everyone else… But then who could be the third one? Caustic, and Mefisto, and…

Bloodhound’s body shivers again, but they barely notice it through the sudden haze, the mottled pressure of it, the grinning, dead-eyed masks swimming in the fog, the way that fog darkened and darkened and darkened but never granted them the unconsciousness because to faint would mean to escape, and there was no escape, only the distorted voices, and the callouses on strangers’ hands trespassing on their skin, and the nightmarish chemical reek - could it have been Caustic’s? Could it?? _Could it??_

Bloodhound does not even notice leaning over the edge of the window frame, forgetting all about the cracked scope, desperate to see, to find any hint, anything at all…

A crack of a sniper rifle, a booming echo, and with a sharp whizz someone else’s bullet puts them out of their misery.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :) this is my humble offering to the fandom as i crash land in it.  
> check out Mirage's POV in BIRDBoNES's fic [BLACK OUT DAYS](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28836051)
> 
> i post art on [twitter](https://twitter.com/royalcorvids) and have a metric heckton of bloodhound/miragehound content in the works, come say hi :)


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